The Poetry of Life


Some people will always measure life

by the path a wheelbarrow leaves.

Others will stir their coffee slowly,

watch the plumes of smoke from a cigarette

and see poetry.

See a frozen dead bird and know,

it is the quintessential metaphor to life,

that death will not wait for us to stop.

Men will always breathe,

but rarely see society scratched into a billboard overhead.

Like those that came before me,

I was never twenty-one,

but one and twenty

Not unlike those that tasted Latin promises

become the prelude to another generation of bitter lies.

While every man‘s mask grins and lies,

and every man kills that which he loves,

Some murder by pen, others write their own requiem.

They carelessly open a book, and purposefully leave their phone off the hook.

But all see greatness lay in sandy ruins some day,

like a dream that slipped away before it was ever rightly grasped.

While I took not the path of heroes, but of criminals,

and have mourned greatly the loss of my compass,

still your memory always moves my laughter.

While some never see poetry balance Heaven and Hell,


and most never feel life carved into an ancient urn.

Whenever I see coffee spoons and cigarette plumes,

I will always think of you.



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